


you okay there, Cupid?

by Xmarksthespot



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Online Dating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-08 09:23:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1935543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xmarksthespot/pseuds/Xmarksthespot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <strike>Coerced</strike>
</p><p>
  <strike>Threatened</strike>
</p><p>
  <strike>Going to be in a lot of pain if he doesn't</strike>
</p><p><i>Willingly and enthusiastically</i>, Sherlock agrees to check out the all of London's available women using the online dating website John and Mary <strike>bullied</strike> <i>encouraged</i> him to try out. </p><p>Really, if he doesn't receive a lawsuit from the webpage and is barred from ever finding love, John would be incredibly surprised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Texts are written out for anyone who can't see images :3

“Detective043? _Detective043_?!”

John sat, posed quietly with the elbows on either arms of his old chair, while eyeing the detective pace back and forth. A small twist at the edge of his lips formed, but he pressed them together to keep Sherlock from noticing his amusement (an ineffective move, but he did so nonetheless).

“Why in God’s name would I be Detective043?” Sherlock continued to rant.

“Uh…because Detective042 was taken?” John quipped. He forwarded Sherlock a shit-eating grin, which only grew as the other man’s face fell flat.

“Do you think this is funny, John?”

“I _do_ , in fact, find this funny.”

There was a moment’s pause when neither said anything. John merely stared back at Sherlock who refused to look anywhere else but at his supposed best friend’s face (probably in attempt to strangle John with his mind, he thought).

Finally, with a loud, exaggerated huff, Sherlock sat down across from John. His fingertips laced together as he once again tried to analyse the situation he was begrudgingly placed in.

“You suppose I’ll just dilly dally my way through,” Sherlock paused and his eyebrows furrowed at the thought, “ _online dating_ , accepting scurrilous propositions from lonely cat women—”

“Or men!” John added.

“—who probably won’t even know the difference between a toxin and a toxicant if it hit them in the head with Mycroft’s scale.” Sherlock turned his head away from John and stared directly at a point on the wall, which only supplied further proof to his theory that Mycroft has had a camera installed somewhere there. “Might as well use it to make _some_ sort of contribution to society. My brother’s not going to lose any more pounds at the rate he’s devouring Mrs. Hudson’s butter biscuits.”

“Sherlock,” John began, “just give it a try. Greg—”

An eyebrow perked. “Gavin?”

“— _Lestrade_ is taking time off rekindling the relationship with his wife—”

“Sleeping with the school male nurse.”

“—and Sally’s not going to let you join her cases—”

“Enervating.”

“—and I’m going to be spending my weekend with Mary for our anniversary…” John’s voice trailed off, pausing just for a moment to wait for Sherlock’s interruption. The dark haired man’s eyes flickered over for a brief second before the word escaped his lips, enunciated clearly so that every syllable was attacking John at full throttle:

“ _Pointless_.”

John rolled his eyes. “ _And_ ,” he added, “she thinks you could use some company.”

Sherlock stiffened, twisting himself into a new angle. The stare that earlier tried to convey an underlining threat to strangle John’s neck had multiplied tenfold.

“Mary thinks this?” The detective spat, waving his arms up into the air in a frustrated mess. “ _Mary_? I'm going to be subjected to…to… _this_ thing on my computer—every website, even my blog is _blocked_ —because _Mary_ believes I'm lonely?”

“Well…Yes,” John responded, still seated calmly as he was far too used to Sherlock’s behaviour to be concerned of the loaded revolver sitting on the shelf less than three meters away from him. He added: “And keep in mind, you could easily just undo the website blocks if you, uh, you know, expanded your Mind Palace a bit.”

Sherlock grumbled to himself.

“Just give it a go, mate. Mary says she won’t make you change any nappies anymore if you visit at least fifty profiles.”

Once again, Sherlock sent a look of disbelief towards the war veteran, this time accompanied by knotted brows.

“You’ll even be allowed to bring Abby to the crime scenes if you’re babysitting, but please, nothing too vile. I have to approve.

“And message at least five people. _Compliments_ and _invitations_ only. I don’t want to come back from this holiday hearing the website has filed a lawsuit against you for harassment and barred you from finding any sort of love.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and scoffed. “ _Love_. Chemical imbalance of the brain. Clouds my judgement. Useless when there are _murders_ out there.”

John sighed, pushing himself from his seat and grabbing onto his coat. “Keep in mind that my wife can physically force you to go through this if you don’t comply on your own, so _really_ try it, hmm?”

* * *

_Click._

“Boring.”

_Click._

“Boring.”

_Click._

“Boring.”

“Oh? Husband recently died…” _Click_. “Never mind, heart attack. Boring.”

Sherlock pushed his neck back and rolled his shoulders. Mary had orchestrated his entire weekend perfectly so that there would be absolutely _nothing_ for Sherlock to do but internally curse at her espionage skills. Seeing as how Mycroft hadn't bothered to stop by, he could only assume further that his brother aided the former assassin’s craft.

He decided to quickly weave through the abundance of women’s profiles, if only to accomplish Mary’s demanding fifty. Sherlock’s next goal then would be to choose the five least annoying or desperate women and cater a message of some sort—again, enough to satisfy the demand, but not so much to invite the women to actually _converse_ with him.

Thirty-eight profiles later, a window popped up.

* * *

 

**[new message]: hello there! i play the violin too. we should get together one day and have a duet ;)**

* * *

Sherlock frowned at the misuse of the semi-colon and closing parenthesis in order to form a face.

Not only did the photo accompanying the message signify that the woman was far too old to be dating anyone near Sherlock’s age, but the fact that John had gone ahead and filled out Sherlock’s details for him without his permission.

But then again, the man had gone and created this godforsaken account in the first place without his consent, so Sherlock should be far less surprised.

Deciding to ignore the senseless message, the detective clicked on the button on the left side of the screen, labelled: PROFILE.

As Sherlock had expected, John had filled out his profile for him, even adding a photo of Sherlock playing the violin. It was cut off, however, so that only the lower half of his face was shown. It was an astute decision—probably John’s only display of intelligence given his recent actions, though that still wasn't saying much—seeing as Sherlock was unfortunately the face of many headlines.

Beside the photo was a fictionalized greeting to any who had stumbled upon his profile.

* * *

_Greetings! I'm a 36 year old man and I assist the New Scotland Yard. I have one older brother and_

* * *

It was repugnant. Sherlock couldn't bring himself to read any more that was said. He briefly wondered if he should begin collecting all the bile that was accumulating within his system and spill it all along John and Mary’s doormat.

It sounded too welcoming. He needed to fix it. Keep it from meandering hags.

A thought crossed his mind and he quickly deleted everything that John had added—save for the photo. He simply didn't care enough about that. With one last look at his addition, he nodded in approval.

* * *

**Detective043's PROFILE:**

> A doctor leaves his office late at night. Let’s call him Hamish. Hamish leaves his office an hour after having closed due to a rather contingent visit from Mike, a government official with severe weight problems not even the Queen can hope to solve with all of Briton’s pounds. 
> 
> He gets off the cab three streets before his tiny home shared with his loving wife and child, a spontaneous bout of energy bursting through him as he decides to surprise Marilyn with a bouquet of flowers — he’s quite unoriginal unfortunately.
> 
> Before he reaches the shop, he’s pulled aside from three, no, _four_ masked persons wielding knives. Despite the doctor’s previous training, he was stabbed multiple times. One particular wound severed many tracts on the left side of his spinal cord, including one between his shoulder blades.
> 
> Can Hamish’s right leg still function?
> 
> _Don’t bother messaging me if there isn't enough capacity in your feeble minds to imagine such a scenario._

* * *

Come Monday, Mary and John stepped into 221B only to immediately find Sherlock at the door like an overly eager child waiting for his parents to come home from work. Before either could say anything, Sherlock opened his mouth.

“Hello, Mary, John. Yes, yes, I know how much you miss your daughter and that you’re eager to see her. She’s fine by the way. Mrs. Hudson shared stories of her youth—nothing too scandalous, I assure you. How was your holiday by the way? Fine and relaxing, I suppose, spending two days away having nonstop sex—three times in one night, really John? You might want to check out that rash of yours by the way,” Sherlock said in one fell swoop.

Mary glanced at John in the corner of her eyes, and the doctor cleared his throat.

“It’s on my leg.”

Mary barely had enough time to pass concern to her husband when a laptop was pushed towards her face.

“Fifty profiles, five messages. Done,” said Sherlock, dropping the laptop into John’s arms. As he backed his way to the sitting room, he continued to say, “No nappies and I get to bring Abby to the crime scenes—she’ll absolutely enjoy it. Now unblock all the websites you’ve prohibited me from visiting and tell Scotland Yard to start giving me murders again.”

John and Mary remained at the doorway, staring dumbfounded at the retreating detective, laptop still in arms. 

* * *

“Sherlock, I thought I told you not to upset these women.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You told a woman her mother is the reason why her past three husbands left her,” Mary interjected. She pushed the laptop screen towards John who eagerly sifted through Sherlock’s online conversations. His brows lift up in amazement at his friend’s deduction, only to drop them just as fast when he felt Mary’s disapproval.

Sitting next to him, Sherlock’s idly looked at the screen, if only to remind himself whom Mary was talking about.

“Ah, yes, _baby-XO-underscore-Margie_ , If anything she should be thanking me. She was clearly blaming herself; such low self-confidence was the reason why she signed up for this website in the first place. Now that she knows the real reason, she’ll actively seek out a partner and _lover.com_ will have one less dullard.”

“Mary, did you see what Sherlock wrote to this woman?” John asked, turning the computer around. His wife leaned in from her seat to read the message.

* * *

**[Detective043]: Your husband already knows you’ve visited this site in search of secret partners.**

**Ooh, an affair! Such an exhilarating adventure you were never capable of achieving with your three (four?) kids. If I were you, I’d question him why he hasn’t complained of your secret past-times.**

* * *

The couple gawked at Sherlock.

“I didn’t insult this one either,” the detective explained. “I didn’t even mention the husband’s secretary. You can tell by his bedraggled shirts sitting in the background of her photo.”

Mary let out a sigh of exhaustion. This was by far her most frustrating mission yet.

* * *

  **[Detective043]: Perhaps your diet would work much better if you avoided carbonated drinks with your every meal.**

* * *

“If I had really insulted her, I would have commented on the two stones she’s gained since joining this website and receiving too few matches.”

“Did you actually read through all fifty profiles?”

“I was already punishing myself enough by clicking all fifty pages to please you and Mary, what elicits you to believe I would subject myself through further pain by actually _reading_ them?”

* * *

Towards the night, both Watsons had mostly given up. Sherlock was delighted. Mary had returned his chemistry set—the severed tongue included. His violin was in perfect condition and all of the websites she had prohibited him from entering were unblocked. All he had to do was wait for the familiar tune of his phone’s ring or the beautiful luring chimes of a police siren.

He was almost giddy.

Later, having applied rosin only three-quarters of the way up his bow, there was an annoyingly familiar _ping_ coming from his laptop. He scowled.

“Mrs. Hudson!” Pause. “Mrs. Hudson!”

When the ~~housekeeper~~ ( _landlady_ , he could hear her shrill voice remind him) never responded and one more _ping_ alerted him, Sherlock finally set his bow aside and marched over to his desk.

* * *

**[new message]:** **Assuming Hamish’s vital organs weren’t harmed in the awful attack and given the information you’ve provided, his right leg would most likely lose sensation of pain and temperature.**

 **[new message]:** **Luckily it would not be paralyzed, meaning he could bring Marilyn that bouquet of flowers he had originally planned, after some emergency surgery, of course.**

* * *

Sherlock read the response carefully, flummoxed at the idea that someone from the dating website could _potentially_ have a working mindset, though he could work without the asinine optimism that accompanied the second message.

“Hm,” he hummed to himself. A feeble name, not much better than what John came up for him, though given the response he had received, the woman was most definitely a doctor. “15” could be a misguided belief in “lucky” numbers or a birthdate. 

Against his better judgement, he clicked onto her name and entered her profile. It quickly confirmed his assumptions that the people on this website were nothing outside of lonely women with a plethora of pet cats, for this person’s profile picture was none other than a kitten. 

* * *

**DoctorKitty15's PROFILE:**

> It’s been a while since I've the chance to take a photo of myself so for the time being, a photo of my new kitten, Dust, will have to suffice. I have two cats and I think Toby is a bit jealous of Dust, to be honest. :)
> 
> As of now, I'm working in the medical field, so my hours are somewhat odd depending on the day, but I enjoy my work nonetheless.
> 
> When I'm not at work, I fancy myself  a glass of red wine while hanging out with the girls or just relaxing at home in a nice bubble bath.
> 
> For partners, I'm looking for someone who enjoys having intellectual conversations, is easy going, and comfortable with my sense of humour. They're quite morbid, or so I've been told. 
> 
> I suppose you'll have to be the judge of that, but only if you message me! ;)

* * *

 Barely skimming the description, Sherlock hovered the pointer to close out of the web page, but then another incessant ring was heard and a message window obscured his view. Again, it was from DoctorKitty15:

* * *

**[DoctorKitty15]:I should also point out though that flower shops don’t generally open that late at night.**

**P.S. Does Hamish survive?**

* * *

Concern for the fictionalized character, or perhaps pure curiosity? While the first possibility further eliminated any sort of respect he had for this individual – not that he had any respect for anyone in the first place, especially for one that _willingly_ used this sort of medium for interaction – the second, he found he could relate in some ways. If he had stumbled upon a vicious attack in the streets of London, he too would want to know the state of the victim, if only to find out if he or she had had plans to donate their body for one’s… extracurricular activities.

He continued to stare at the messages, fingers readying themselves in their position on the keyboard. If anyone on this site managed to provide a proper answer to his question, they deserved some sort of reward.

Sherlock typed a response.

* * *

**[Detective043]: Correct.**

**Hamish's outcome is undecided. His wife does track down his perpetrators in a reasonably stealth-like fashion. The end result has even the British Government baffled, though I assure you that doesn't take much.**

* * *

 She responded almost as immediate as the first several messages he’d received, again with another question. Sherlock quickly read it, impatience bleeding from his fingertips as he eyed the X in the corner of the webpage.

She had asked if he was a government worker, based on his response. His answer was a vague: _Sometimes_.

He was about to remove the offending webpage from his screen once again when it alerted him with a new message. He felt as nauseated reading that penname as when he first read his own when John first presented it to him. It rang three more times, each time aggravating Sherlock more and more.

Nevertheless, they were what truly caught his attention.

* * *

 

**[DoctorKitty15]:** **It’s a bit of a wonder what will get to Hamish first if he does die. I mean, blood loss or eviscerations are high possibilities depending on the extent of his wounds.**

 **[DoctorKitty15]:**   **But nosocomial infections are also likely. He’s likely at risk for _Enterococci_ , or even _Staph aureus_.**

**It will be like a puzzle, don’t you think?**

**[DoctorKitty15]:**   **Oh! I'm sorry, I must sound so morose. I get really excited about the human body. It comes with the job at the hospital.**

 **[DoctorKitty15]: Hamish** **’s death, if it happens, will be tragic, I'm sure.**

* * *

Sherlock stared at the screen, eyes fixed on the four bubbled boxes as he drew his hands together and held them by his chin.

“Fascinating.”

* * *

It didn't occur to Sherlock until John rang him later that he had been talking to this supposed Doctor for the past two hours.

“What are you doing?”

Sherlock hummed to himself, all the while scrolling down the webpage to see all of the red chat boxes that had taken up a good part of his late afternoon.

“An experiment,” was his response.

“Of what?”

Sherlock paused, briefly reading the stranger’s message: 

* * *

 

**[DoctorKitty15]: If I had to? Not to be creepy, of course! I mean, if it was a life and death situation and I really had to - I swear, I'm not mental! It would be horrible, of course, if it came to this as my only option.**

**[DoctorKitty15]: I guess I'd just inject a syringe full of air into the bloodstream. Quicker and efficient than any type of poison, really.**

* * *

Sherlock pursed his lips, analysing the response. A conflicting personality; no doubt this person has had received backlash in the past for the things she said, specifically on this website. Not too many people enjoy her particular brand of humour.

“The frontal lobe,” he responded to John.

It barely took less than a moment for John to decide he didn't need to know exactly why Sherlock was testing yet another brain; he had seen enough, truthfully.

“Uh, right. Well, Mary wants to know if you’ll be coming to dinner tomorrow night or not.”

* * *

  **[DoctorKitty15]: How would you dispose of a person, if you had to?**

* * *

 

 

 

“No. I don’t think I will.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All profiles and text bubbles were made using: Word, Publisher, and Paint by myself, so clearly not professionally done, and hence the unoriginal dating site name.
> 
> Acknowledgements:  
> Thanks to TN for providing input/editing/being a crazed Sherlolly fan and encouraging me to write this.  
> To CN for allowing me to use her new kitten's photo in Molly's profile. The kitten -- originally named Ghost but was then discovered to be a female (Ghost could probably be unisex, and yes, that's Ghost after Jon Snow's Direwolf) and is now Luna (because Sailor Moon FTW) -- is forever adored.
> 
> Also, Sherlock's profile is based on the questions we got on our midterms+exams in our human physiology class (yes, they were _that_ morbid).


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Texts are written out for anyone who can't see images :D

John wasn’t surprised when he first saw Sherlock typing furiously into his phone; the man was always up to something, and at the time he had assumed that it was case-related as they were on their way to see Lestrade.

(Later, Sherlock fussed that the case was barely a six. John and Mary suffered until they managed to convince him that Abby needed to go to sleep and that quite easily shut him up).

The second time around, they were at a victim’s funeral (coincidentally, the victim had died at that very funeral home—Sherlock had been ecstatic). It wasn’t until he spotted an ever growing smirk smeared on the detective’s face during the service that John widened his eyes and had to mutter a: “Sherlock, stop smiling. _Now_. And put your phone away.”

Sherlock momentarily glanced away from the device, took one look down at John as if asking for a challenge and said: “No.”

“ _Sherlock_.”

Mary liked to joke that John’s frequent use of his stern voice towards Sherlock would be helpful the day their daughter decided to go through her teenage rebellion phase. John didn’t like to think about that day. He barely wanted to think about it _now_ , especially now with so many people turning away from the priest to look at them. He passed them a small, apologetic smile.

“Oh _fine_ , if you really insist. It’s not like anyone here cared much for Mr. Reid in the first place! Just look at this crowd. They’re waiting to hear about the inheritance anyway.”

Father Joshua had stopped the entire event to glare at them. John internally cringed and Sherlock turned to Lestrade; it barely hindered the effect of his loud voice.

“It was the sister-in-law. Previous car accident has led her to walk with a slightly greater pressure in her left leg than her right, matching the imprints in the mud we found by the courtyard earlier. Let’s go, John.”

And with that, John watched the great Sherlock Holmes step away, his coat flying with the wind like a cape on the back of a superhero who grinned madly at the sight of his phone’s screen.

Something was wrong.

Incredibly wrong.

* * *

**[DoctorKitty15]: Not that I don't enjoy our conversations, but I have to ask: you're not a serial killer, are you?  
**

**[Detective043]: Of course not. If I was a serial killer, I'd have easier methods of pursuing my victims than chat with strangers online.**

**[DoctorKitty15]: Oh, you never know what kind of things rile up killers ;)**

**[DoctorKitty15]: But I am glad for your honesty. And if it's any consolation, I'm not a serial killer either.**

**[Detective043]: I never said you were.**

**While we're on the topic, I must admit, there are certain...people in this world that encourage the thought.**

**[DoctorKitty15]: I totally understand! There are days when I just want to strangle my interns! You would think after all the schooling they're put through, they would at least tell apart the pipettes.**

* * *

 

Sherlock continued to ignore John’s presence for several days to the point where even Mary and Mrs. Hudson were concerned. It must be punishment, the good doctor insisted, for signing Sherlock up on that online dating website. Really, if that were the case, then Sherlock was being a bit unfair. Mary had played an equal role in signing him up.

“But what about the baby?” His wife had asked.

“What about the baby?”

“Well we can’t _both_ take the blame. Someone has to look after Abby when Sherlock decides to extract his revenge.”

John had stared at Mary incredulously.

“And it had to be _me_?”

She had given him a smug look. “He was your friend first.”

Her stubbornness was what led John here, sitting in his old chair in 221B, staring at Sherlock who still hadn’t paid any attention to him since his arrival. He had even considered sending a note to Mycroft, thinking perhaps the older Holmes brother would have an idea, but decided against it. It would take another while before he would resort to affiliating with the government, and that would be _after_ he turned to his wife to request her expertise.

“So…” John began, “Sherlock. You’ve been spending quite a while with your phone this past week. Anything interesting come up in the news? Anything at all?”                

Completely ignoring John’s questions, Sherlock asked without looking up from his phone: “Have you ever heard of Famora’s?”

“Uh, yeah, it’s that tiny restaurant across the street from my practice. Not too shabby, but not too high end either. Why?”

“Can’t think clearly. Need to get dinner.” He paused to glance idly at his desk. “And some patches.”

“Oh.”

Briefly, John adjusted his neck, noting the bright light from the kitchens where the others were. “Sherlock…”

“Hm?”

“How did you hear about the place? Who have you been talking to?”

A small scowl formed on Sherlock’s lips.

“I’m here with you, obviously,” John continued, “Mary is talking with Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen. It can’t be Lestrade or you would’ve rushed us out of the flat by now, or at least complain that there haven’t been any good cases lately. It’s certainly not Mycroft…”

With his brows scrunched together and eyes narrowing into slits as he tilted his head, Sherlock said, offended, “Contrary to popular belief, I _do_ have other acquaintances, John.”

John rolled his eyes, but said nothing; their brief staring contest eventually led to Sherlock responding to the never-ending ringing noise coming from his phone and ignoring his friend once more.

“Right,” he muttered, pushing himself from the chair. “I should go get Mary and Abby now. It’s getting late.”

He grabbed for his coat and walked past the detective, only to pause midway through venturing to the kitchens and peered down over Sherlock’s shoulders. There, he saw the messages.

* * *

 

**[DoctorKitty15]:**   **You should definitely try the Pad Thai at Famora's off of Hallam Street. The place doesn't look like much on the outside, but the food is absolutely to die for!**

**[DoctorKitty15]: The place doesn't look like much on the inside either, actually...**

**[Detective043]: Regardless of the restaurant's décor, I will trust your judgement and visit Famora's the next time I have a craving for Asian food.**

**Note that should you be wrong, I will have to force myself to ignore all future suggestions that you direct my way.**

**[DoctorKitty15]: Noted. :P**

* * *

“Is that…”

Startled, Sherlock all but threw his phone aside and casted John yet another angry glare. Mary once mentioned that Sherlock had quite a number of similarities, facial expression wise, compared to the villain from the new _Star Trek_ franchise, or even the dragon from the _Hobbit_ movies; Sherlock had scoffed and declared he would never be roped, bribed, or threatened to movie nights with John and Mary again. John just tried not to think about the (frankly high) possibility that Sherlock could make a frightening villain if he wanted to.

“Is that the app for _Lover_?” John asked. “Are you…Are you talking to a woman? An actual, _living_ person?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course I’m talking to a _living_ person, John. Only idiots would think they could communicate to the dea—don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve won—you _haven’t_ won; there isn’t anything to win.”

John smirked. “Do you like her?”

“ _What_?”

(There was another _ping_ coming from the phone, which Sherlock tried and failed to suffocate using his hands, while his face stared, nonchalantly, at John. John tried not to smile even wider).

“Do you have feelings for her?” John asked again.

“It’s absurd you would possibly think I could have _feelings_ towards—”

His phone, yet again, rang.

Nodding his head towards the hidden phone, John said: “Well go on…What’d she say?”

There were a brief few seconds when the detective wasn’t sure to follow John’s orders or not, but eventually, he harshly pulled the phone out and quickly scrolled through the messages. And if the idea of Sherlock talking to a woman hadn’t left John baffled, the sight of his increasingly relaxed face did. It wasn’t the same look of thrill he had whenever Lestrade or Mycroft presented him with a case deemed higher than an eight. Rather, he almost looked…entertained? In a normal way, that is. It was an interesting look on him.

All that was over, of course, the moment Sherlock noticed John’s watch. He went back to frowning.

“It’s none of your concern,” he said, getting up from his seat.

John chuckled. “Well then. I never thought I’d live to the day when Sherlock has a crush.”

“It’s not a crush!”

“It _is_ a crush.”

“Attraction involves bodies releasing pheromones and an evolutionary desire to mate with someone whose immune system differs greatly from oneself. Aside from you and me, do you _see_ another body here? My _online companion_ and I simply have a shared interest concerning biology and chemistry—”

“Didn’t seem like you were talking much about biology or chemistry there,” John muttered.

“— _and_ I find many of the things she has to say to be quite fascinating.”

John pulled out his own phone after he felt the vibration. It was a text from Mycroft.

* * *

**[Mycroft Holmes]: Please tell my dear brother that is what one would call a crush.**

* * *

“Mycroft says it’s a crush.”

Turning his head towards the wall, to the point where John swore had a hidden camera, Sherlock yelled, “Do shut up, Mycroft!”

* * *

**[Detective043]: Next time, perhaps you should consider taking a cab instead of the tube.**

**[DoctorKitty15]: Ugh, definitely. That's the last time I willingly sit through an entire ride next to a man who reeks of urine. I need a really, really long bath.**

**[Detective043]: I doubt his stench was particularly contagious, especially considering the short length of time you were with him. A bath that exceeds regular expected time intervals won't be necessary.**

**[DoctorKitty15]: You have a unique way with telling me I don't smell, despite us never having met. :)**

**[Detective043]: You're clearly an organized person; it would be shocking to learn that you smell like an old man covered in his own waste, much less that you don't take the time to care for yourself.**

**[DoctorKitty15]: Thank you?**

**[Detective043]: Don't mention it.**

* * *

Sherlock Holmes very infrequently made new acquaintances. He could never appreciate the amount of sentiment and mindlessness that radiated from common individuals, not to mention he could hardly afford to reserve any room in his Mind Palace simply to remember so much as their names. That said, he was nonplussed at the realization that he had been “talking” to _DoctorKitty15_ for several weeks without having even met her to be able to analyze her at his full potential.

She wasn’t particularly hard to describe; her personality traits bordered on so many levels of insecurity which he knew he would be stumbling upon the moment John shoved the hazardous webpage into his arms with a revolting account name. Her interests were bland, at most, often scheduling _relaxation_ times to catch the daily, lovesick programming that most women seemed to immerse themselves into these days. She even used colons and semicolons along with parentheses and letters to form faces, much to his initial annoyance.

However, what intrigued him was originally her excitement involved with the freak accident he had placed upon the imaginary version of John, leading to a gross discussion on murders in general—a conversation he could rarely share with anyone else other than John who was spending far too much time _bonding_ with a toddler who won’t even remember what her last meal was, much less her parents giggling in front of her night and day.

He had not meant to stray from such topics until one day, Lestrade made him come for the most moronic case he had ever had the displeasure of solving, including the case of the missing sunglasses (atop of the client’s head, for God’s sakes). Not to mention his trip to St. Bart’s was an utter waste of time, what with Molly being on leave and the temp being more incompetent than all of New Scotland Yard on steroids **.** With John and Mary off to…wherever, Mrs. Hudson out of town, and Mycroft being, well, _Mycroft_ , he had turned to this website—still unpleasantly on his laptop screen—and proceeded to rant about his day to her. In turn, she began discussing about her day.

To this day, she _still_ shared details pertaining to her day to day activities, mostly involving grocery runs or the inadequacy of interns and how they should come with a cage, each—her words, not his, though he found the idea rather appealing.

It was not until two weeks after the initial conversation that he found himself downloading the dating website’s app onto his phone, allowing for more efficient communication. Three days after that, their tangents – surprisingly relieving him of all the stress caused by _people_ – sprouted into life topics he had occasionally only talked with John about.

Of course, this woman was far more interesting and clever enough to keep a chat from running dry. It was what kept him from dropping their day to day chats entirely, Sherlock thought.

It was most _definitely_ not a crush, regardless of what John and Mycroft claimed.

Imbeciles.

* * *

**[DoctorKitty15]: Quick! Pick a number between 1 and 10!**

**[Detective043]: Why am I not surprised you are the type of person to make life decisions based on a random number chosen by a stranger?**

**What happened with lucky number 15 your account name is so fond of?**

**[DoctorKitty15]: Only 10 interns.**

**[Detective043]: Oh, well in that case, 6.**

**[DoctorKitty15]: Great! Guess who gets clean up duty today? ;D**

* * *

“JOHN! JOHN!”

With Mary off to calm down the screaming infant, John rushed out of bed, all too familiar with the routine that was set upon him. Since Abigail’s birth, Sherlock came by in the middle of the night less frequently, opting to only do so in the case of emergency. Now, he was pounding the front door with heavy fists.

He all but jumped into his trousers, running to the nursery to peck both wife and daughter on the cheeks before heading towards the front door and greeting the detective.

They set to St. Bart’s and it wasn’t until they were in the cab that John finally composed himself enough to ask what the case was.

“What case?”

The response was enough to make John’s head snap. “ _The_ case. The bloody case you dragged me out of bed in the middle of the night for!”

“I never said it was a case, John. Pay attention,” Sherlock responded, turning away from the passenger windows to face the doctor. “However, I still am in a…predicament that would be considered as an emergency.”

“And it’s at the morgue?”

“No, dead bodies just calm me down. Honestly John, it’s as if you don’t know me at all.”

John tried not to make eye contact with the suddenly stiffening cab driver in the rear view mirror, and instead, pushed himself to focus on the man sitting next to him. Sherlock was agitated, even as the cab pulled alongside the curb to drop the pair off. Sherlock paid the fee and quickly headed towards the morgue; John quickly followed, asking for more information. He was stopped when Molly Hooper greeted them.

“Oh, evening, Molly.”

“Evening John,” she said and with a slightly bigger smile, she turned to the detective. “Hullo, Sherlock! I set out the body for you. I’ll just be at my desk, um, if you need me—I mean, anything. If you need anything.”

“Thank you,” John said, because of course Sherlock would directly march straight to the corpse without another word. He followed after, and it wasn’t until they were away from the pathologist’s ears that John asked again: “Sherlock, what’s the emergency?!”

Sherlock sighed, aggravated. He pulled off the Belstaff, preparing himself for his game of “What Killed this Body and What I Can Do With It”, before shoving his phone to John’s face.

* * *

**[DoctorKitty15]: Would you fancy the idea of us meeting in person? One day?**

**[DoctorKitty15]: Oh, I probably should have started out simpler. What's your name, for instance?**

* * *

John’s eyebrows peaked above his hairline, astounded. He looked up at Sherlock with a large grin on his face. “Your girlfriend made the first move? Good for her,” he said as he patted his friend’s back.

“What? Good for—This is _not_ good for anyone,” he responded. He rolled his shoulders enough to push John’s hand away.

“‘Fraid you’ll fall deeper in love with her?”

“John, this isn’t a joke. Everything was perfect until she had to go and ruin it. Now help me undo it!” Sherlock said, dropping the phone; John scrambled to catch it before it hit the floor. The doctor studied the recent message once again as Sherlock hopped from side to side around the slab to examine the corpse.

“Why me?”

Sherlock scrunched up his nose. John knew that the animalistic stare Sherlock gave the corpse was intended for him instead. “Because you started it!”

“ _Mary_ started it.”

Sherlock’s glower only deepened.

“Just give her your name, mate.”

He momentarily looked up from the corpse from his crouched position, sharpened eyes narrowing at the sight of John as if the suggestion was more offensive than the dead, naked, old man lying between them. “She was the one who initiated it, John, not me, so why do I have to bring up my name first?”

“Would you get off your high horse and bloody move this conversation forward, for once?” Glancing at the phone in his hands once more, John felt a slight urge of accomplishment despite having done nothing _yet_. “Here, let me.”

Sherlock’s neck snapped upwards once more, extending his arm while running around to the other side of the slab. John dodged, angling his body away from the outstretched arm.

“John!” he yelled.

On the side, Molly peaked from her papers, ever so confused at the sight of one man chasing another around a dead body—one laughing, the other angry.

Sherlock’s actions were futile in the end. By the time he pulled his phone back—why, _why_ hadn’t he seen this coming? All this _communicating with strangers_ nonsense was clearly damaging his thought process—the message had already been sent.

* * *

**[Detective043]: My name is Sherlock.**

**What's yours?**

* * *

No doubt Sherlock was, once again, trying to strangle John with his mind. There was no use in attempting the act in person seeing as it would be risking too much with Mary being Mary and Molly in the same room as witness—given all the things the pathologist had done for him in the past, there was a slight chance Molly would help him out with John’s body, but Sherlock assumed this might be the final straw. Not to mention it was too much of a _hassle_.

He began to rub his temples; an impending headache was making its way. “John…” he all but growled viciously.

John shrugged, finding the situation far too amusing. “Don’t worry, Sher—”

 _Ping_.

Sherlock’s arm dropped and he straightened himself. John turned to the detective whose phone was tucked into his pockets; it wasn’t the source of the sound. There was a brief moment when both men stared at each other, silently questioning the other if the overly familiar chime was indeed what they thought it was. The fact that Molly was rummaging in the background only further confirmed their telepathic conversation.

Slowly, they turned around.

She had a phone in hand, fingers idly pressing mismatched buttons, at least based on John’s observation. In the corner of his eyes, he could see Sherlock’s lips running rapidly, muttering to himself:

“—bags under eyes indicate stress, not family related, more work—perhaps interns; faint scratches on hand from new, untrained cat, but from at least two months ago; fur on lab coat, has two cats; appear blissful when looking at phone, chatting with someone important to her, been eagerly awaiting this message …”

There was a moment’s pause from the men when they noticed the way Molly’s eyes widened and refrained from looking up from her desk. She reread her message several times as if demanding proof of validity. Her face had become ghostly white and her earlier excited demeanor dissipated into nervousness and shock. Then, she furiously typed something.

John could see Sherlock pulling out his phone from his pocket, a loud _ping_ ringing from it. It was enough to draw Molly’s head upwards to face her proof. Adjusting his vision, John saw the opened message.

* * *

**[DoctorKitty15]: Sherlock...Holmes?**

* * *

“Well then,” began Sherlock (John could feel a chill crawl up his spine; he didn’t understand why after all these years, he refused to listen to said chills), “what an interesting outcome, what with you trying to move on from me by searching for men online only to find…me.” He waved his phone in the air, the _Lover_ app still brightly lit enough for both John and Molly to see.

Immediately, Molly’s face averted from panic to unadulterated fury.

“You git,” she spat, before collecting all her files from her desk.

“Molly,” John said, hoping to be the mediator.

“Now I don’t think _git_ is the—” Sherlock was cut off.

“It’s late. I need to leave now to catch the tube. You boys both know how to lock up, of course.”

Needless to say, it wasn’t the reaction John had been expecting, and based on the look on Sherlock’s face as the doors slammed shut, he doubted the all-knowing detective had foreseen something like that either. 

He sighed.

“Sherlock? What did you do?”

* * *

The next day, Sherlock sat with the toddler on his lap. His chin rested gently atop of Abby’s head, completely still even as she constantly poked and prodded at his face and made giggling noises that, coming from any other child, would have annoyed him immensely.

Meanwhile, John and Mary scrolled through his phone, reading every bit of his conversations with DoctorKitty15, or Molly, as they were now referring to her. The couple whispered comments to each other, which was entirely useless as Sherlock knew just what they were saying even if he hadn’t heard the words come out of their mouths.

“Well…we found it,” John said.

“Found what exactly?”

“Why poor Molly was so upset with you when she found out her online boyfriend—”

“Not her boyfriend.”

“—was the ever so charming Sherlock Holmes,” Mary provided. She looked down at his phone, cleared her throat and with her lowest voice, she read out loud:

_“I apologize for my belated message. The woman I’m currently working with has absolutely no idea what she’s doing, both at her employment and with her life.”_

“I don’t sound like that!” Sherlock rebutted, careful not to startle the baby. She only stared wide-eyed at him.

John rolled his eyes. “Not the point there, Sherlock. You insulted her—I specifically told you not to insult these women.”

“I was talking about her intern!”

“Good! You can tell her that when you apologize,” said Mary.

Sherlock grimaced, a facial expression that displayed clearly annoyance, which John assumed he pulled many times as a child whenever he thought treatment between him and Mycroft were unfair.

“Why should I have to apologize when I’ve done nothing wrong?”

“She mistook your message for her, Sherlock. It’s only right you sort things out.”

The detective narrowed his eyes at the pair; the fluff of blonde hair on Abby’s head moved along with his dramatic exhale and she giggled. “Fine. Give me the phone.”

“Don’t apologize over the web, you dolt!” John reprimanded. 

“ _Why not_?” Sherlock whined.

“Because it’s not proper!”

“I’m sorry! Is there some sort of _rule book_ explaining how I should and should not apologize for something I didn’t even do wrong?”

“It’s impersonal,” Mary finally said.

“I’ve been communicating with Molly online for the past three months. _Everything_ about that was impersonal.”

Mary snorted, earning a grin from John sitting next to her.

“What?”

“Sherlock, outside of the people you work with, along with John and me, who else have you willingly spoken to for three months straight?”

“I work with Molly,” he pointed out.

“But you didn’t know it was her in the beginning, did you?”

Sherlock was silent. He would hate for something to disrupt the relationship he and Molly shared, professional or otherwise. Things were already quite strained during and following her brief engagement with…Theodore? Tyler? _That_ man. Not to mention he quite enjoyed conversing with her, more so than he, or anyone really, had initially assumed.

Mary was right. It annoyed him when other people were right; especially when it was before he came to the conclusion himself, and while that rarely happened he wanted to do nothing but seethe at her.

John continued to nod along to his wife’s wise words. The baby gurgled.

“See, even your God-daughter knows that what you and Molly had wasn’t even close to impersonal.”

Sherlock groaned, but handed Abby back to her father as he got up from his seat. Mary smirked.

* * *

“Molly.”

The pathologist continued to ignore him. It was clear the presence of the high and mighty Sherlock Holmes, with his calmed expression and hands behind his back, seemingly behaving professional for once, was only angering her even more.

“Molly, if you would be willing to listen.”

She continued to walk back and forth between the laboratory tables and her desk in the corner, shifting files and test tubes haphazardly until several file folders slipped from her arms. She groaned to herself, finally coming to a halt in her rushed moves and knelt down to pick up the files.

“Molly, there seems to be a misunderstanding,” Sherlock insisted.

Stacking the papers on one another, each folder landing on top of the other less violently than the last (Molly seemed to be cooling down), the brunette’s eyes slowly made their way to their corners. She studied Sherlock quietly before saying softly, “A misunderstanding?”

“Yes. The message that I had sent that made you angry at me was not about you,” Sherlock explained.

Molly bit her bottom lip and rocked from one foot to the other subtly—a nervous trait of hers, he noted.

“If you happen to check our conversation, my insult towards the woman I worked with was sent approximately two weeks and four days ago, the day you happened to have taken a spontaneous holiday to relieve yourself of the ever growing migraine from having to deal with your cousin’s up and coming nuptials to a man no one in your family approved of, including yourself.

“That said, I had to deal with your annoying intern…” He closed his eyes, trying to picture the woman to no avail. “The…The one that never shuts up.”

“Jane?”

Sherlock waved it off. “Not important. What’s important is that I was not talking about you.”

“Oh…” she squeaked. A small, hesitant smile peaking at the edges of her lips. “Well this is embarrassing. I suppose I overreacted, I—Oh dear.”

Now, instead of avoiding his face because she was overly angry, she was avoiding it out of sheer mortification, cheeks flushing as she glanced at every corner of the room. Sherlock tried not to be amused at the sight.

Stepping forward, he approached Molly.

“Molly,” he said whilst stretching out the arm that had been hidden behind his back. He paused to think through his words carefully, recalling what he, Mary, and John had rehearsed moments earlier (with John threatening to call Mycroft had he not made sure said words were secured in his mind). “I would very much like to get to know you in person, if you don’t mind foregoing our original method of contact.”

Her eyes widened and she pressed her lips together to prevent herself from grinning madly.    

“You got me flowers,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Flower shops don’t open this late at night.”

“So I’ve been told. I didn’t get these at the shop.”

“You didn’t?”

“No,” Sherlock responded, handing the bouquet to her. She stared at each wild flower appreciatively and he continued, “I suggest you avoid being seen with them out in the streets. No doubt Mary will soon discover her naked garden and there’s no telling how many of my Homeless Network she can take out before coming for me once she discovers that I am guilty.”

“Oh. Um, of course, Sherlock. I appreciate the sentiment,” she said meekly, and with a higher, stronger tone of voice, she mustered a: “and I would love to get to know you more in person. Given our schedules though, I don’t think texts should be completely ignored.”

“You _do_ have my number, Molly. I was hoping we both could abandon the…”

“The online dating app?”

“Yes. _That_.”

Molly giggled. Knowing Sherlock, it was his way of saying he didn’t want any other possibility that she was talking to another stranger. She nodded and could tell how pleased Sherlock was.

With that, the two stood awkwardly, and it was certain that Sherlock hadn’t come up with anything else to say after that. Molly imagined how overrun his mind must be, so unsure of himself in this sort of situation. She couldn’t help but form a larger grin as she began to put away all of her supplies.

“Would you fancy a dinner with me, Sherlock?” she asked.

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m famished. And seeing as you’ve decided to come apologize to me five minutes before the end of my shift, I deduced that you’ve been in your flat all day, presumably with John or Mary or both, trying to come up with effective ways to apologize to me, meaning you haven’t touched a scrape of food.”

Sherlock looked pleasantly surprised. “Excellent deduction, Molly.”

“Would you like to go to dinner with me then, Sherlock?” she asked again, laughing.

“I believe I will. I was told by a reliable source that Famora’s restaurant has excellent Pad Thai.”

Sherlock held out his arm, to which Molly linked with her own.

“Your source has excellent taste.”

* * *

**Detective043's PROFILE:**

> I apologize to everyone if I happened to have stolen the only person with an actual brain on this website, but I doubt any of you would have interested her anyway.
> 
> She's far too intriguing for you.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there you have it. I hope you guys enjoyed it and thank you sooooooo so so much for all your kudos and comments! You have no idea how much I was freaking out the first day because I honestly wasn't expecting such a huge reaction :D


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